You were perched at the edge of a lounge chair, camera in hand, your sundress flowing gently in the breeze. The cool drink in your other hand had started to sweat, beads of condensation slipping down your fingers. You were mid snap, trying to catch a candid shot of Elvis midlaugh, when you noticed him climbing out of the pool, water cascading down his arms and chest.

Before you could react, he was making a beeline toward you, dripping wet and grinning like the devil himself.

“Elvis, No, please, no no no!” you laughed, holding your camera up like a shield.

He didn’t stop.

With a flash of mischief in his eyes, he climbed onto the lounge chair laying on top of you. Cold droplets soaked into your dress as he leaned in, resting his damp head on your chest, his arm lazily draped across your waist.

“You looked too perfect sittin’ there all dry,” he murmured with a smirk, his voice low and teasing. “Had to do somethin’ about it.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile, pretending to be annoyed—though the way your fingers instinctively found his damp hair said otherwise.